There’s a place in my yard that holds two different lives, depending on the season. In the cooler months, it’s my Hygge Hut (pronounced hue-gah, gentle in the gah). Hygge is Danish word that is meant to embody the idea of comfort and contentment. This glass like dome is that embodiment. Some people jokingly call it “the Igloo.” White, lavish, filled with all things cozy, it stands like a cocoon of stillness. When I step inside, the noise of the world fades. The space feels stripped down to only what is comfortable: a sanctuary of quiet and calm, a place where my body remembers what peace feels like.
But when summer arrives and the heat presses in, I take the hut down. The space transforms. It becomes a lush, living jungle, surrounded by tropical foliage that climbs upward and spills downward like green prayers, like Jacob’s ladder stretched between earth and sky. Where the hut once offered simplicity, the vines now offer vitality. The ground hums with wild energy, and I feel like I’ve stepped into a garden cathedral.
Two seasons, two sacred spaces. One teaches me stillness. The other teaches me abundance. Together, they remind me that sacredness is not fixed: it shifts, just as we do.
Feng Shui
The Chinese art of feng shui literally means “wind-water,” the forces that shape the world by how they flow. Feng shui teaches that energy (qi) moves through our homes and lives like a current, and that how we arrange our spaces either blocks that flow or allows it to move freely.
My yard is a feng shui lesson in motion. In winter, the Hygge Hut offers clarity. Its white walls and minimal lines feel like a clean breath, uncluttered and smooth, as though the qi can glide straight through. In summer, the jungle takes over: vines climbing and spilling, energy moving upward and downward at once. Where the hut gave me peace, the foliage gives me vitality. Both are forms of balance. Both remind me that harmony doesn’t always mean sameness. Sometimes energy flows best through stark stillness; sometimes it flows best through riotous abundance.
Feng shui whispers: pay attention to how your spaces shape you. A doorway, a color, a plant, a bed—each choice alters the current. And when we notice, we can begin to arrange our lives to feel more whole.
Kami
The Japanese tradition of Shinto sees space differently, but just as reverently. Shinto teaches that sacred presences called Kami dwell in trees, rivers, stones, mountains, and sometimes in the places we tend with care.
When I step into my Hygge Hut in winter, it feels like a Kami of stillness has taken up residence there. Not because I built a shrine, but because of the way I show up with intention. When summer comes and the vines replace the hut, a different Kami seems to awaken, one of wild abundance and growth.
This is Musubi at work: the Shinto idea of the generative thread that ties us to life and ties life back to us. My role is not to “own” these spaces but to be in relationship with them. My care creates the invitation; their presence meets me there.
Creating Sacred Spaces
Feng shui, Kami, Musubi, hygge: all of them remind me that space is never neutral. The way we arrange, tend, and honor our surroundings shapes how we feel, how we think, and how we connect.
Feng shui shows me that flow matters, that blocked doors and clutter dam up more than just air; they dam up life. Kami remind me that presence is everywhere, waiting to be honored—in a hut, in vines, in a dining table, in a grove of trees. Musubi ties it all together, showing me that sacredness isn’t something we impose but something we participate in. And hygge teaches me that comfort and coziness themselves are holy: that joy can be simple and peace can be created.
Whether it’s my white hut in winter or the jungle in summer, the space itself becomes a teacher. One season whispers stillness. The other sings abundance. And both remind me that creating sacred space is not about building something grand, it is about noticing, tending, and honoring the life that is already there.
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